Non Omnia Moritur
by aldkhfa142
Summary: A creature the world considers a demon is all Son Gohan has ever known. But now he must choose between his only friend and the unfamiliar mankind. What is it to be truly heroic, in a world where there is no clear distinction between good and evil?
1. Dokusou

Hiya!

Welcome to my new random attempt at fanfiction... This one's been in the works for awhile, but I just now got the guts to make a chapter for it. Sad, huh?

Well, anyhow, this is a Piccolo/Gohan, mostly... This first chapter is a bit confusing. It's supposed to be. It will all be explained later, but a teensy bit of info is this: the first 2 sections are from 2 different POV (guess, guess!) and the 3rd is from yet another POV, but 17 years later. It's probably rather easy to tell... Let your imagination wander... Cookie to whoever guesses correctly!

So I guess I'll get started! Let's roll...

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or its affiliations or Akira Toriyama or Funimation... If I did I'd give Funi one big kick in the rear.

* * *

Chapter 1: Dokusou

_

* * *

The final match at the 23rd Tenkaichi Budokai never occurred. It was I that refused. This was to be the final chance for my revenge. I insisted that we each take a year to better ourselves. Then would be my final, climatic victory.  
  
A year later, I did it.  
  
It took six hours, but I did it.  
  
I killed Son Goku._

* * *

Her throat was constricted, as if squeezed by some outward force. She could feel the slight twinge of surprised leg muscles from her sudden sprint from the others to her... her...  
  
_ It's over._  
  
A shiver swept across her body, an icy nothingness creeping along her skin and gouging at her flesh.  
  
_ It's... It's over..._  
  
She could hear him laughing- and she could feel the other, the one who rested across her lap, rested but did not breath. He's just resting, a tinny voice croaked in the back of her mind. Just resting, then he'll get up, there's no way he could be gone, there's no way he could be dead...  
  
Silence.  
  
"Ah..."  
  
Mud was soaking into her dress, mud and something darker from the object that weighed upon her thighs... the object that was just starting to become as frigid as the black rain which poured from the heavens. The warmth was flowing through her fingers and she almost thought that if she clenched them it would stay, he would wake up, the rest would be over and there wouldn't be a monster at her back and dark crimson splattering her lap and they'd be at home and Gohan would be laughing and-  
  
Her fists clenched, but cold rain just swept across them, squeezed from the ebony hair that had been caught within her grasp. No warmth. Nothing left.  
  
"No," she croaked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
The monster was behind her- she could hear his whisper, and feel his presence, shadowed and cold like the sodden dirt beneath her. "It's over, princess. Where's your hero now? I've won. I win." He was laughing, voice strained from fatigue. "I win! I defeated the indomitable Son Goku. Ironic, isn't it?"  
  
Her shoulders snapped together as a sudden sob racked her body. All she wanted was the warmth back. The warmth was getting away, slipping away, if she didn't get it back then it would all be over and-  
  
It's over.

* * *

His feet were on the ground; he did not know how long or far he had flown. Already his mind was whirling to decide the next move, the next shift of the chess piece...  
  
It was as though someone had tilted the board, propelling the myriad of ivory and ebony pieces to the floor, when he finally realized just where he was standing.  
  
Greenery refused to grow; indeed, where a glorious mountain had once stood in a cloak of emerald, a jagged and naked rockface rested. Only now, over a decade later, did timorous plants choose to creep up the mountainside. His feet already crushed the life from a few precious, fragile pioneers. He took no notice.  
  
The space before him, on the very edge of the gaping orifice that had once been a mountain, was still touched with the black of a fire that had long since sputtered and died. The skeleton frame of glass and timber had given way so many years before, collapsed to the merciless earth with a screech and a groan.  
  
He knew this place. He knew it, and he could not move...  
  
And so he stared at the conflagration of the past. Nostrils flared, pupils dilated. The pungent scent of smoke and ash choked his lungs and brought tears to his eyes; unbearable heat tore at his skin; and flames danced before him in their deadly, voracious waltz. A scream, the scream of burning wood and shattering glass and... a woman... And over it all, malicious laughter, hurtful cachinnation that drowned out the smell and the sound and the feel...  
  
He screamed and he dropped. Yielding helplessly to the heavy weight, the soft stalks of grass bent and finally snapped as fingers dug deep into the soil beneath. The blaze had sprung from his vision and into his chest- it kindled there, smoldering with a deep pain he hadn't known he possessed.  
  
_Too much, too much, this is just too much... I can't...  
  
He did this.  
  
He wouldn't.  
  
He did...  
  
I can't believe this, he... he...  
_  
The imaginary holocaust had vanished as quickly as it had come. A fresh breeze, burdened by the scents of flora and perhaps a taint of the sodium-thick ocean, was resting a steady arm on each shoulder. His fingers were moist with soil and dew. All that was before him was a naked, jagged rockface.  
  
Still, his subconscious screamed at him in sorrow.  
  
The wind brought him news of a person, a child, at his back. He was on his feet. Seeking repose from the turmoil within, he noted that his breathing was louder than usual; it came in short huffs, as though he were on the road to hyperventilating. Not quite there yet. He ran a hand through untidy hair and, most likely, spread dirt there from his grimy fingers.  
  
Acute hearing picked up the rustle of clothing as the child shifted his position, obviously uncomfortable or uncertain. Finally he spoke, but his tone was not uncertain or cautious- it was steady, strong, and assured. "I remember things, sometimes."  
  
There was an echo, in the background, his mind inserting some recent memory.  
  
_"So are there other secrets, kid?"  
_  
"Sometimes... I don't know where from... It just comes out of nowhere, and it's like I'm in a different world..."  
  
_"Something else you've been keeping from me?"  
_  
"Is that what just happened to you?"  
  
_"Get the hell away from me."  
_  
His reply was rasping, rough. "...I remember..."  
  
The child was walking forward, ignoring his hoarse response and pressing all the more. "Do you remember this place? I've remembered it before. But it doesn't look the same... There was a mountain here before..."  
  
He closed his eyes. "That's impossible. There is nothing here."  
  
"I remember a child. A child and a beautiful woman..." The man found his eyes upon the boy, a sudden wild frenzy burning in his stomach. The young human seemed oblivious to this, lips tugging in a phantom smile. Dark eyes shifted to match his own; his cheeks were pulled up with a broad grin. "Food."  
  
Something had fallen into place.  
  
His slight calm dropped, mind shifting from the eye of the storm and into the turmoil; his breath had quickened, probably hyperventilating now, but he didn't care. He was stumbling backwards. This was too much, too much, much too much for him...  
  
And he stared at the young boy, shifting erratically, eyes darting from the child to the ruins to the direction of his master's ki and he felt like his head and heart were going to explode if he just realized what, what had been bothering him so much about this eleven-year-old kid.  
  
His lips moved in a simple, single-syllable word.  
  
With that, a pressure swamped all aspects of his being and he found silky darkness, tranquil respite.  
  
_"Do you remember?"_

* * *

Finis

* * *

_(By the way, the chapter title 'Dokusou' means 'running alone' in Japanese.)_

_Sooo... How was it? I know, I know, confusing as hell but hey, what's the point in explaining everything in the first chapter?_

_ I don't expect this one to be nearly as long as Serendipity (now called Sabireru) or Kokuhaku, but it should be at least a few chapters. Each chapter will be a little long, though (unlike this one). I don't know when I'll be able to finish the next chapter, hopefully soon... _

_ Next time!_

"Do you see the mountainsides, sire?"

"Of course I see them, I am not blind," The alien spat with distaste, sharpened canines displaying themselves.

The human gulped. "The… The monster did that. He destroyed that mountain, too, one night a few weeks ago. We fear that he will come here next."

"I don't have time for this," Piccolo growled and took to the air.

_I suppose this quick-edit thing isn't that bad, once you get past the irritating destruction of my little smiley-faces. Oh well. A small loss... And now I can use breaks! And fix spacing! If only I could get out of the habbit of smiley-faces and action-asteriks... Well, whatever. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it!_


	2. Veritas

_This story has been majorly reworked since the last update (which was last June... Eheh...). Thus, none of the "preview" from last time will show up. In fact, I doubt that it will _ever_ show up. Probably for the better. But I have all the chapters planned out step by step so I should have it written in a matter of months. This story will only be around 10 chapters long - short and sweet, ne?_

_Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ, or Terence... _

_Quick Pronunciation Note:  
_Tsumoya Karo_ is pronounced _Sue-moi-yuh Caw-row.

* * *

Chapter 2  
Veritas 

**

* * *

**"Auribus teneo lupum.  
_I hold a wolf by the ears._"  
_-_Terence

The ability to leave this place was a luxury he did not possess. Something clouded his mind, keeping him still... His sole place was that imperceptible in-between, not quite awake and not quite asleep. He could not describe the place where he rested… It was that place beyond the eyelids, separated from the sensation of a living body.

For a long moment, only one thought was able to voice itself within this irritating void: _I don't want to be here._

He waited.

No dreams came to him in this place without definition… But voices did, ones he didn't recognize. He listened to them at first, comprehending but confused. Why were they saying these things? Who were they talking to?

"End it now, Bulma, before he wakes…," a cold voice was insisting. This one was strangely familiar- yes, it was the man he had met the day before (had it only been a day? Or a week? A month?). It was the one who had been frightened…

Of him?

In turn, that fear had instilled itself in him. He didn't understand why the man had come to be afraid of him, and that scared him, because he rarely misunderstood anything. And if he did misunderstand something, he could work it out. This… he could not. Try as he might, he just couldn't comprehend it.

_ Like Piccolo… _

He forced the memory away. A woman was talking now. He assumed it to be 'Bulma.'

"He won't wake unless I let him. If we do this, Yamcha…"

_ Is that the man's name? Yamcha? Where have I heard that before?_

'Yamcha' said, "We have to do it. And quickly… The demon's not going to wait around long before he comes searching. And we're going to be prime suspects."

_ What demon? There's a demon after me?_

"Well if you had done it out at the mountain maybe we wouldn't be in this situation _now_."

"Right in front of the kid?"

"He'd understand! He's the reincarnation, after all. He knows that our fight isn't an easy one."

"What if he _doesn't_ understand? You think Goku would ever understand why we're going to kill his son?"

_ …Goku…?_

His next thought was one of clarity… and shock.

_ They're going to kill me?_

He wasn't certain of what to do. They were going to kill… him? What for? Why?

_** Why?**_

Yamcha was speaking, alone this time. He was speaking to him. It was eerie… and frustrating. He could not reply to the man's words. Could not defend himself.

"Kid… You'll go with the demon, won't you? You'll kill us. You'll be our end. Even if you are the son of… of Goku. We couldn't let you live, kid. Could never let you live. So, if I'm the one to do it, don't think ill of me, kid. I don't know if you're a bad person or not at heart… But I'm sure of this. Anyone who sides with that monster is just as much of a murderer as he is. I've killed people before… I hope that your master will be the last one I slay. But I can't do that when you're around. You're going to kill us, when the time comes. No matter what Karo says. So now, while we're in control… We have to make this decision. You can't get in our way."

_ It's not fair… You don't know me. Murder… That's what humans do. They hurt each other. I don't hurt people… Me and Piccolo never touched anyone. _

_ Who's a demon? I don't know any demons. My master? Piccolo? Do you mean Piccolo?_

_ …You can't mean Piccolo._

_ Piccolo never hurt anyone. _

"I can't waver on this. After all the people that have died… The thousands that that _monster_ has killed." Yamcha's words overflowed with hate and sorrow, genuine emotions- impossible to fake. "Piccolo's destroyed thousands of us. You must be blind or a murderer, kid – siding with the likes of _him._"

_ You lie! You lie! **Piccolo never hurt anyone! **_

His protests went ignored. Yamcha continued. "He said you were just an experiment, but I think you've become more than that. The idea that that bastard could love, though… That's impossible. But you're important, somehow. He's wasted a lot of time on you. It's time that we took advantage of that."

Disheartened by his inability to protest, he felt his will dissolve. Slowly, listlessly, he absorbed the words, giving halfhearted response. _Piccolo… love? I don't know. I'm not even sure what love is. _

_ I'm not sure I care anymore. _

_ Why is this happening to me?_

He had grown weary of listening; Yamcha's words faded away. He lingered, sifting through recent memory. _Why am I here?_

_ The fire, Mount Paozu… _

_ That was my home, wasn't it?_

_ I thought home was with Piccolo. In the forest. _

_ But… This was before. A woman… She pushed me away, told me to run. _Mother.

_ The fire consumed it all… And I watched. Waited. I couldn't run. Not until the light, and the explosion.. Then I ran, ran as fast as I could. _

_ Just like I ran from Piccolo. _

_ …It's all the kid's fault. _

If he had been awake, past this frustrating half-sleep, he probably would've been crying by now, surrounded by these memories. Partially in fear. Partially in hate. And partially… Partially because he was alone, helpless.

He was surrounded by his would-be murderers… and he couldn't do a thing.

** "So are there other secrets, kid? …Get the hell away from me."**

For a moment he hated Yamcha. The man who didn't listen. Who hated with no basis.

And then he hated Karo. The reason for his master's anger. Why he had ended up at the mountain in the first place, and where he had realized…

_ The fire. _

_ It was Piccolo. _

He felt an unsteady mirth at the edge of his consciousness- if one could venture to call this state consciousness. The laughter that accompanied his realization both saddened him and terrified him.

_ Piccolo killed my mother. _

_ And I knew all along. Still, I looked up to him. I laughed at him. I fought with him. I listened to him. I worshipped him. _

_ I… loved him. _

_ So here's the big question, Gohan:_

_ Mother or Piccolo?_

_ Is Yamcha right? Would I side with Piccolo, blood-stained Piccolo, murderer of thousands? Even if I knew of his dark deeds?_

_ Am I a murderer, too?_

A child's voice was slowly rising to the forefront in his mournful debate. If he had bothered to look deeper, he would have come to realize that it was his own.

"Mr. Piccolo would never do these things. He could never harm a fly. He's Mr. Piccolo!"

_ He killed Mother. _

"You're silly. Mr. Piccolo's the nicest, best teacher around… He'd never do that."

_ He killed her! He did! Don't you see!? _

"No, no- you're so silly. Silly, stupid boy."

_ I don't know where I'd go. Piccolo's everything… He's always been everything. I don't know humans. I don't understand them, I fear them even... Why would I go with them?_

_ Humans mean _nothing_ to me. _

_ So does that mean I'm a murderer?_

He gave a sigh, feeling eternity slip past in this ethereal semi-awareness.

_ I don't want to know. _

Something else was nagging him – there was another verity that he was supposed to know.

He sat, and waited.

Nothing came to him.

What _was_ it? Was it something to do with the mountain? Something past Piccolo?

…Still nothing.

_ I don't care… And I don't want to know,_ he resolved angrily. _I'll just sit here and wait. For death. Death at the hands of strangers. _

He wasn't even sure of _that_ anymore.

* * *

Finis

* * *

_So, there's chapter 2. I have a few more tweakings to do with my plot line (characterization, etc.) and this chapter may be replaced if I find any mistakes, but other than that I'm set to write the rest. _

_ Evil QuickEdit! I spend 20 minutes going through and tabbing (since it so lovingly resets it everytime I upload a document) and then it jumps right back. What's the use in a working indent button if it keeps jumping back!? Rrrr... _

_ Thanks for reading! Review responses will be on my Livejournal. Go to my author's page and look at the profile - towards the end I have a link to my Memories (it's the last link there, I believe). Once you go there, you can go through to "Review Responses" and find "Non Omnia Moritur- Chapter Two Review Responses." If you can't get there for some bizarre reason, follow my homepage link to my actual journal and look for an entry on the 30th of November. _

_ Thanks for reading! (Please don't switch back, tabs... You know you love me...) (Great... They didn't work. Ok, to hell with indenting.)  
_


	3. Sousaku Part One

Notes: _Three drafts and nearly two years, and at last poor, neglected NOM gets an update. Sorry for the wait... I know all five of you were dying for an update... Anyway. Review responses won't be up for awhile, because Ernesto has oh-so-kindly killed my power. Until it's back, here's the chapter. Enjoy.  
_

Edit (9/11/06): _Edited version posted. Thanks to Lady Eldaelen for being my lovely beta this time around._

_'Sousaku' is Japanese for 'lost.' _

Disclaimer: _Thems characters belong to DBZ's creators, yes indeedy._

* * *

Chapter Three  
Sousaku: Part One

* * *

Naufragium sibi quisque facit…  
_Each man makes his own shipwreck._  
--Lucan

They arrived at the clearing at first light, the harsh report of the helicopter's motors slashing through the quiet mountain atmosphere. Krillin dropped to the ground with his fists clenched tightly into the fabric of his jacket, uncertain of what he would find.

For a long moment, all he could do was stare.

Dying wisps of smoke curled, serpentine, into the air only to dissipate with a silent sigh. Wind ripped the fine tendrils into bits, a faint echo of the night's violence. Along the winds danced flakes of ash and glowing embers, still clinging selfishly to their light.

Wooden beams, warped and streaked black with fire, groaned their melancholy song, leaning upon each other for support in the ramshackle mess of ruins. As the small human watched(,) a ceiling beam squealed and gave up its fight. In a sudden spume of smoke, an entire section of the wrecked wood collapsed. Soot whirled furiously into the air.

"The bastard," whispered Yamcha gruffly at his side. Krillin did not hear.

His eyes, a dull brown, traveled beyond to the gaping scar cutting deep into the mountainside. There was no question as to whom had wrought such damage – and so fast. Leaves scattered the ground, ripped from their stems prematurely by the vicious wind of the explosion which had obliterated the mountainside. Just looking upon it, he could feel the heat and harsh winds screaming in his ears, rippingthe breath from his throat…

Movement caught his attention, drawing him away from the marred landscape. His other companion was in the ruins, picking her way among the creaking supports and walls which had collapsed under the heat of fire. Bulma walked carefully but carelessly, cutting her hands on glass as she bent to rummage among the rubble, shoving aside plaster and shattered furniture, warped metal ripping at her dress as she wandered.

Yamcha started forward as Krillin called out her name, both fearful of the unsteady ruins, but she ignored them. At long last she stilled among the wreckage, kneeling near where the back door had once been. Out of curiositythe two men picked their way through the shattered house, tentatively listening for the foretelling moan of a collapsing beam.

As Krillin came to a stop beside the tall, lean woman his face twisted in sorrow. A starkly pale hand with delicate alabaster fingers stretched yearningly from beneath a pile of torched wood. It seemed that the ceiling had collapsed upon the hapless woman.

Swallowing in a worthless attempt to slacken his dry throat, he knelt, examining closer. The soft hand was adorned with a single plain wedding band and streaked with gray soot and blood. Krillin frowned, depicting patterns – finger prints and smears. A tiny hand had gripped this one, pulled at it even. It had smeared the soot in the process.

Bulma seemed to read this thought from him, for when Krillin opened his mouth she was already speaking. "Her son," she interjected, her voice oddly rough and husky. "Her son must still be alive…"

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Her face was wet. Guilty, he looked back towards the hand. "Gohan could have made it out?"

Wiping her face on her sleeve, she got to her feet. "He would've run, I expect… Maybe came back after the fire had died down. Ran again."

"The woods?" he suggested softly. He stood as well, not even coming to the woman's shoulder.

"We'll see. Check near the copter. Could you sense him?"

The human frowned; his chi-sensing was not his strongest ability. It was hazy, at best, even when Goku had been standing right next to him. "I'll try."

Bulma frowned and turned her head. "Yamcha?" The scarred man gave a helpless shrug; his abilities were on par with, if not below, those of his shorter friend.

Waving them both off in frustration, Bulma found her way to the grass once more – the scorched remains of it – and headed for the far forest, calling the Sons' child's name. Yamcha headed in the opposite direction towards the scarred mountainside. Krillin, less dedicated to his task, headed back towards the helicopter. He wasn't an optimist; he was certain the child was somewhere underneath the mess that had once been a house.

Still, he imagined his senseless friend Goku and summoned some small amount of hope, even if there was a high probability the fragile notion would be dashed. That, at least, was something Goku had taught him before dying.

Shoving past the thick underbrush that marked the beginning of the arboreal forest, he glanced around, kicking at the leaf litter which clung, wet, to his feet. The recent rain was what had prevented the entire mountain from going up in flames.

"Gohan," he called, soft and half-hearted. He didn't expect a reply. If the kid _was_ alive, he was probably lying in shock somewhere. Sure enough, after a few seconds of waiting, only silence returned.

With a heavy sigh he started to trudge along the edge of the underbrush. Past the edge of the clearing, the forest floor cleared out into a smattering of tree trunks, allowing a nice view of most anywhere a toddler could hide. Krillin imagined any kid would stick to the underbrush, where he'd be well concealed. If he was smart, anyway - and from what Chi-chi had described, Gohan was an exceptionally smart kid.

Of course, Chi-chi tended to glorify everything about her son.

Krillin groaned. _Of course she would… Gohan was the only family she had left…_

_And now Gohan's on his own... If he's even alive._

* * *

"He's as good as dead," muttered the former bandit to himself as he skirted the edge of the crater that had once been a mountainside. It had been nearly twenty minutes, and he had yet to see anything remotely toddler-shaped.

Lashing out at a nearby rock, he watched with interest as it skated the curvature of the scarred mountainside, at last getting caught in the middle of a fracture in the rocky surface.

Inside he was raging; here they were, looking for a kid (probably in the midst of that rubble, right next to his mother!) when they could be seeking revenge. Isn't that what Goku would've done? Most definitely, he assured himself. Goku would have gone after Piccolo and ripped him to shreds for doing this…

It was Chi-chi. _He had killed Chi-chi. _Why? Why, in Kami's name…? Rage kindled deep in his chest, a powerful, pulsating thing.

It was because of them, of course. After Goku's death they had sat back and done nothing as he killed all those people in Northern Capital. Hundreds! Thousands! And they had done _nothing._ But when they had tried to retaliate, tried to regain hope and gather the Dragonballs – _Kami, only three of them, they only had three!_ – this was their reward. The death of Goku's last kin.

Yamcha turned away from the wretched scene with disgust. The relatively calm forest, battered with wind damage but otherwise unscathed, stared back with its open disinterest.

When the object fell from the sky, his first reaction was panic; he leapt back automatically, nearly falling into the crater but saving himself by a swift correction of balance. Only when he had regained his footing did he recognize the glittering object.

The three-star dragonball lay sparkling in the grass before him.

There was a sharp clatter and three more of the glimmering orbs appeared, one after another.

Yamcha stared in disbelief. _The last four._ His mind did not dare comprehend the consequences of such a gift. With a grimace, the man closed his eyes. Half of him expected death; the rest expected worse.

A shadow falling across the grass. The sharp flap of a cape in the wind. The demon's voice.

"A proposition for you, human."

* * *

Krillin meandered along the edge of the underbrush for nearly half an hour, looking for patches of clothing or a flash of black among the leaf litter. The telltale thing was his tail. In truth, he had forgotten Gohan had one. But upon a second examination of the area, the fuzzy thing stood out starkly among the smooth leaves.

Kneeling, he tried to be as tactful and gentle-sounding as possible. "Feel like coming out yet?"

The tail remained motionless.

Feeling a pang of concern – and hoping it wasn't a dead squirrel or something – he reached beneath the leaves and, sure enough, his hands met the fabric of a shirt. As gently as possible he took hold and dragged the child out.

The sight of the tiny creature, face pale and smeared with dirt, clothes torn, would probably have broken any sane human's heart. As it was, Krillin shook his head against a strange onslaught of emotion – was it anger or sorrow? He wasn't entirely sure. But that small spark of hope that he had forced into existence kindled into a steady relief as he watched the faint rise and fall of the kid's chest.

"Bulma! Yamcha!" called the human across the broad meadow. He cradled the unconscious child with infinite care in his arms. "I found 'im!"

The blue-haired woman came running immediately, face pinched with concern. She held a hand to her mouth at the sight of the Sons' child, choking back a fresh assault of tears. Krillin scowled at once. "He's alive, isn't he? Come on, let's make sure he stays that way."

Occupied as they were, they did not notice Yamcha's pale expression when he returned moments later.

* * *

Moonlight spilled over the room in silvery patches, painting everything it touched a monotone blue. It only reached the edge of the bed; the rough fur of the child's tail was barely illuminated, a sharp comparison to the soft shadows beyond. Tucked soundly beneath the covers (save the tip of his tail), the kid didn't even seem alive. His face was still and expressionless in the dark, smooth and untouched.

Yamcha stood in the doorway feeling indescribable. He had ignored the kid up to this point. Now, a deep resentment took form as bitter bile at the back of his throat, stomach compacting into a tense knot. His hands were clenched, fists at his sides, knuckles standing out pale white. His mind was spinning, anxious. _What do I do?_ he asked himself desperately. _What do I do?_

He didn't hate the kid; not really. Not enough. That was the real problem. How could he hate the little midget? He'd never done anything. Hell, up to this point, Yamcha had barely registered the kid's existence. Oh, poor Gohan – the orphan of the Sons. It didn't matter at all. He was just a little kid, a quiet and disturbed little kid who had seen a bit too much for his age.

They had only seen Gohan once before Chi-chi died. To tell the truth, if Bulma hadn't mentioned him, he would have completely slipped Yamcha's mind. He would have easily left the little kid in the wilderness, no home to go to, no one to watch him. Would have gotten eaten by the mountain lions, probably. A tasty little snack.

_So I'm just letting him do something useful, for all mankind. A sacrifice, of sorts. To appease the beast. _With a disgusted snort – he wasn't sure for who, the kid or himself – he turned away, slipping down the silent hallway and into the nondescript bedroom he called home.

That's what he told himself, that night. He spent the next twelve hours repeating it in his head, over and over, twisting and turning in his fitful sleep. The words didn't stop the nightmares, though. The nightmares would never cease – not until the day he died.

The following morning, throat tight and uncomfortable, he told Bulma he was taking the kid to the countryside to teach him a little martial arts. Bulma was surprised, of course; to Yamcha's disdain the woman knew him far too well. "Why the sudden interest?" she asked. And the kid, standing at her side, seemed to repeat the question with his quiet gaze.

He silently damned the dark-eyed child, then set his jaw and replied, "As good a time as any, isn't it?"

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Bulma assented. Her stare was still suspicious, but she couldn't really comprehend what he was up to. Oh no. Yamcha was certain of that.

So they left, a lunch tucked under one arm and the kid under the other. He forced himself to fly, still irked at Piccolo's ability the week before. It was a trying journey; he had never gone so far before. But at last, the battered rim of Mount Paozu rose before them.

Yamcha hit the earth a little harder than he had estimated; knees bending to catch the impact, his bones vibrating from the sudden slam of earth against his feet, he cradled the kid to his chest carefully to keep him from tumbling out of his grasp. The kid had the same idea, apparently, since a tail suddenly encircled his forearm twice over and clutched it tightly. It was eerie, how prehensile the extra limb could be.

Crisis over, he straightened, readjusting his grip on the child to hold him out via a hand under each armpit and deposit him in the waiting grass. The tiny thing didn't even look at him; immediately, his dark eyes flickered around the meadow, registering all too fast just where they were. How could he forget, after all? The mountainside scarred by fire, the still-charred ruins, the former support beams now collapsed together like burnt matchsticks. A grave stood out starkly alongside, its gravestone blinding in the early morning sun. It was probably in the kid's nightmare.

After registering their surroundings, the child known as Gohan immediately dived forward, tail flashing golden-brown in the sunlight. His hands snatched up Yamcha's pants-leg protectively, curling the fabric into his fists. He pressed his tiny frame against his shin, shivering and silent. Yamcha felt a sudden wave of cold amusement; at last, here was a little emotion out of the kid. But doubled with that amusement was nauseating disgust. _What the hell am I doing?_

"Don't hide behind me," said Yamcha flatly. "I did bring you here, after all. What kind of protection am I?"

He didn't bother to wait for any response, heart a cold lead weight in his chest. His eyes were already scanning the treetops mechanically, in search of the flash of white among the green shadows. The words he had been repeating to himself all night - _it's for our own good_ - continued to cycle in his head, and they were slowly taking their effect. He was motionless. Unmovable. There was no turning back...

Lost in his self-assurance he barely noticed when the press of the child at his leg suddenly lifted. Only when the flash of movement appeared at the edge of his vision did he notice the kid running pell-mell for the ruined house. For the hundredth time since they had taken Gohan into their care a week before, Yamcha found himself wondering, _What the hell is he thinking?_

"Hey!" he cried uselessly. The toddler didn't look back, only stumbled into the mess, darting beneath an unstable lean-to formed of what had once been a doorway. In his passing the teetering structure collapsed, sending up a swirling cloud of ash. Unfazed, the child plunged on, only to fall to his knees in a clearing of the mess. The rubble had been thrown aside, debris scuffed in the passing of many feet.

Yamcha jogged over, but stopped on the edge of what had once been a house. The child was doubled-over, hands pressed against the bare earth. The man almost thought he could smell the old blood. He could certainly hear the dry sobs of the young boy. For the briefest moment, he felt a touch of pity – then he heard fabric flap behind his back.

Turning, he immediately felt his inner energy stir, hands becoming sharp fists at his sides. It was instinct, really. And what if his business partner decided to ignore the deal and simply take the goods? What was a dead, weak human to the great Demon King?

Piccolo's expression was its usual flat, bored disinterest. One lip curled in something of a smirk; Yamcha believed it was the only form of expression the demon knew. That, and glee. The glee of murder.

"You decided to show up," said Yamcha, feigning ease. His body language said anything but. His entire frame was rigid.

The demon ignored him, dark soulless eyes turning to the ruins beyond instead. The human followed his gaze - Gohan had caught sight of him.

For a moment the kid remained where he was, frozen, face still wet with tears and eyes wide and blank. A single whimper escaped his throat before his tail flashed in the sunlight as he dove into the jumbled labyrinth of the ruins.

That was his biggest moment of indecision. Piccolo moved to walk past and Yamcha's hand shot out, snatching up his cape in an unconscious motion. The man stared at his hand, aghast at its actions. The demon simply glanced back, daring him to oppose. Shoulders slumping in shame, the scarred bandit released his grip.

_What the hell am I doing?_ thought Yamcha, nauseated. _The expression on his face... I may have never cared about Goku's son, but for Kami's sake, it's his_ son.

"You made this deal," came the rumble of the monster's voice.

Yamcha stared at the earth, and his voice came in the barest of whispers. "I know."

_I never did change, Goku,_ he thought to himself weakly. _Never did._

Piccolo moved into the ruined house. The kid screamed once - then fell silent. Yamcha winced as his fingernails broke the skin of his palm.

The Demon King extricated himself from the corpse of a house, his prize deathly still in one hand. Without a word, he dropped a small bundle in Yamcha's waiting hands.

The human remained for several minutes after the demon had left. He stared at the iridescent pulse of the four simple, infinitely powerful orbs. He thought, _Is this the fair price? Is this what one wish is worth?_

He wondered at how heavy the stone that was his heart had become.

* * *

Finis

* * *


	4. Sousaku Part Two

A/N: _Eh, it was Yamiji's turn for an update... But I'm rather fond of this story. So, here 'tis Chapter Four - Part II of the Life of Gohan. After this, end of anecdotes and back to the original storyline. Hey, we might even get to see the illustrious, indomitable King Piccolo... _

_And huzzah, the breaks are working this time. QuickEdit, I have not lost all hope in thee...  
_

_Yes, Sousaku still means 'lost'. _

Disclaimer: _Owned by Akira Toriyama et al. _

* * *

Chapter Four  
Sousaku: Part Two

* * *

Fuimus Troes; fuit Illium, et ingens gloria Teucrorum._  
We Trojans have been; Troy has been, and the huge renown of Trojans._  
--Vergil, Aeneid Book II

The one tree on the block was a cherry tree. It was young, no more than two years of age, with spindly limbs that reached only a brief distance into the sky. It was awkward and gangly, only showing promise of its future glory with the coming of each spring; with winter's death, it always donned a funeral shroud of delicate flowers.

In the broken concrete word, the cherry tree was the only sign of spring.

The old man stood on the library's front steps cloaked in rain, watching the young cherry dance and twitch as the downpour parried it back and forth. The rain always made the last residents of the shattered city scurry like rats into the nearest shelter, a dim basement or half-collapsed parking structure. For him, the rain beckoned – drawing him out of the shadowy rows and columns and heaps of books and onto the front steps, luminous marble glimmering in slick contrast against the cracked and warped street. Before, the library had crouched between two cold and impersonal high-rise business complexes. Now, it stood proud, the only intact structure remaining. The business complexes slumped in crumbled heaps, maelstroms of rebar and shattered glass.

It had taken him a week of aching joints and a screaming back to clear the debris from the library's entrance. A telephone cable, swung free of its supportive poles, had drooped dramatically across the sign reading "First and Harbrook Central Library" for years until, completely dry rotted, its heavy length had slapped down onto the steps. The old librarian had thought it a monolithic snake and nearly fainted with fright.

He stood in the rain, thin silver hair melting into his forehead. His eyes were upon the sky, heavy clouds chugging slowly across the choked heavens. He blinked in surreal calm whenever a rain droplet struck an eye only to roll out as nature's tear.

The warm spring rain, sign of the sweltering summer to come… Its clear rivulets (so much purer than years before – human industry was only shocking in its death) slipping over cracked asphalt to the soil beneath, nourishing the sprouts which fought their way to the sunlight. The Demon King may not have meant it, but in ruining North Capitol he had given the earth a chance to reclaim its territory.

Soji studied the cracked and warped street, weathered face set in a frown. The blood which these plants grew on, the blood of all the residents that had died… It was not a fair price. As much as the environmentalist in him celebrated each seedling, the small sprouts did nothing to replace the faces, the memories, the voices of each human killed. The children that had reveled in his slow, stumbling stories; the adults that had tugged gently at his shoulder for assistance, or helped him retrieve a fallen book.

North Capitol had been one of the first to fall. Piccolo, Demon King, had destroyed it three days after he destroyed the small island in the South Sea. After that South Capitol, and then East Capitol – but West Capitol stood unperturbed, even to this day. There were rumors that Briefs Bulma had struck a deal with the demon herself.

Although Piccolo had never returned to any of the cities they had all stood empty for years, save the few desperate rats like himself. Even the invincible West Capitol was empty, and far more eerie – so he had heard. An entire city abandoned to the elements. Buildings, disturbingly whole, stood dark and empty. It was a place haunted with the ploys of human imagination.

Ever since that night when the entire city had been lit afire, ripped by explosion after explosion, Soji had lived in the library. He had never tried to return to his home. The library had always been his second home – his every waking hour devoted to shelving and cataloguing and thinking of the next shipment of books. Of course, now he had no customers, and no shipments; the only shipments he got were from the Hand. They brought him food and sometimes clothing, even the occasional book. They were the only humans he ever spoke with.

He spent most of his time in the dark expanses of the library, row upon row lit only by a feeble generator in the basement. He had read every classical novel, from Barbatus to Toriya; he had begun to dip into the adult fiction, something he had never had the time for before.

The librarian finally had the time to organize every book, get the Dewey Decimal system completely up to date for the first time since its founding – but he could not. Each time he attempted to shelve one of the books scattering the aisles, knocked down during Piccolo's massacre, he could only gently fix the creased pages and heave dry sobs before stacking them in unsteady columns. Each book, bent and creased, worn with a thousand hands, was a living effigy to the dead city. To all the dead cities. To the dead human race.

He methodically stacked his columns, some of them nearly man-height. He never put a book back on its shelf.

The only thing he could stand to organize was his gardens, two pathetic strips of land running along the front of the building. He had a few dull marigolds, some confused tulips that bloomed at the start of summer rather than spring, and the cherry tree; all were seeds he had coaxed out of the Hand. While the fallen books he could not lift, these small cultivated areas he could tend, for they showed some stark order in the twisted ruin of the city – some tribute to what had been.

After a year spent in the shocked lethargy of mourning, Soji had fallen into a dazed schedule, one never interrupted. Monday, he read. Tuesday, he gardened. Wednesday, he wandered the crowded aisles, stepping carefully over the corpses of fallen books. Thursday was when he swept the front porch. Friday was when he sat on the steps for hours, or wandered the city, or simply did not get out of bed.

Saturday and Sunday were always a blur.

And whenever it rained, he came out to watch the heavens cry.

That day when his attention turned from heavens to earth he was startled to find a curious new addition only a few feet away, standing in what had once been the street gutter. It was a boy.

Children were rare in this hopeless place; the rats had no need for them, and neither did Soji. He had never married for wont of the free life… Now, he had the freest life imaginable. There was no hate in his heart for children, he had been charged with reading them stories each Thursday night when civilization had still existed. He simply had no interest in them, for they were young and inexperienced, incapable of any truly intelligent conversation. After seven years of his hermit life he had forgotten what they looked like. So small, uncertain in their own bodies; soft faces and innocent eyes. Innocent eyes, lord. He had forgotten what those looked like.

This one seemed too old for his own body. He stood with an adult's confidence but a child's smooth skin, dusted a dark tan from many hours in the sun. Hair charred dark fell across his forehead in thick spikes. His clothing, curiously, resembled that of the ethnic East Mountain tribes – rough cut and resilient, dyed in the colors of the earth, a dark brown and rustic red. Dark eyes glowed brightly from beneath the shadows of his rain-sodden hair.

Soji straightened his back, observing him sternly and expecting him to scurry as all rats did. Already, however, the faint notion had formed that this was not the sort of rat he was used to but something entirely different. His mind already pondered over this theory; if he was not of the city, then where was he from? Surely not the East Mountains. Fuel was rarer than the hovercrafts, and the East Mountains were too far for the sanest vagrant to travel from. Besides, he carried no pack, unless he had comrades or parents nearby.

Under the man's fierce gaze the boy did not move. In fact he raised his eyebrows, as if intrigued at the new specimen he had found. Soji laughed aloud, a dry, raspy sound, at the dark-haired boy's audacity.

"Why do you laugh?" said the boy without malice. He had to raise his voice over the rainfall, but he was close enough to be heard.

_ How strange, _Soji thought. The sound of the boy's voice. The way he spoke was off, somehow; perhaps because all he had heard in the last seven years was his own mumblings and the worthless condolences of the Hand officials, who were all from the South or Southeast.

He pondered on how to respond. "You're not my usual visitor."

"Are there visitors? I had read that all humans had abandoned the cities for their villages and fortresses."

"No, there aren't. I was being sarcastic. Where are you from, a village or a fortress?"

"The wilderness," the child replied matter-of-factly. "Why do humans live in such communities? It is perfectly safe in the forests and mountains, as long as you avoid the large predators."

"Why do you talk about humans like an alien? I do believe you're human yourself, kid," said Soji, taken aback.

"You refer to yourselves as humans."

"You're very well-versed for a wild-boy."

"Wild-boy? Why am I a wild-boy?"

"You said you were raised in the wilderness—"

"But my master raised me. He brought me books and taught me to survive. There can be learning in the wilderness as much as in your villages and fortresses."

"Ah, but you see, not all of us have a master to teach us how to survive the au naturale life." Soji wondered abruptly why he was talking the basics of human life with a kid.

"Why do you live here? Are you afraid of even your villages and fortresses?" said the boy.

"I'm not afraid," lied Soji. "I'm a bitter old man and I don't want to leave. This library is my life."

Abruptly, the boy lit up, scientific reasoning abandoned for a brief light of joy. "This is a library?"

Soji gestured towards the sign behind him.

The child squinted. "It says 'First and Harbrook Central Lib.'"

"It needs a little cleaning, alright? How is a tired old man like me supposed to drag a ladder up there?" The old librarian smiled past his skepticism. "You like libraries, then? Are there libraries in the wilderness?"

"No." Still that sharp, factual response. "I read of them in the books my master gave me."

"What's your name?"

The child hesitated. "Gohan."

"Well, it's a bit of a mess, but come inside. It would be a pity, never seeing a library. This is the best in the city." He gestured towards the door with a withered arm.

"Sarcasm again? Do you enjoy sarcasm?" The boy named Gohan observed this motion curiously yet remained stock still.

Soji laughed once more. "I enjoy it very much. It keeps an old man such as me full of vim and vigor."

At last, the child took a hesitant step forward, and another; as he cautiously approached he said, "My master enjoys sarcasm, as well."

"Do you always talk like a robot?" Soji lead him past, opening the heavy oak-and-glass door with a heave.

Again the child hesitated, looking at the dark interior, and then to the old librarian candidly. "I don't know. Isn't this how humans talk?"

"Not precisely. Well, go on." He gave an impatient wave and Gohan obeyed, stepping carefully through the doorway as if he feared it would collapse.

The awed manner in which Gohan looked at the library – the rows of books, the columns of books, even the flickering fluorescent lights seemed to fascinate him – gave Soji an unfamiliar rush of emotion. When was the last time he had talked with someone truly worth talking to? Not some somber, too-kind Hand representative?

And despite his almost alien personality and his stiff manners, this boy did seem worth talking to. His questions were concise and to-the-point – some so simple as to be absurd, and others too complex to be answered. Soji's original intentions of giving the boy a quick look-around his private domain were abandoned in the dusty rows.

Gohan walked along with eyes wide, touching the spine of each book as if to test and make sure they really existed. "So many," he breathed. "I didn't realize there could be so many."

"Most of them aren't worth reading," said Soji pessimistically. "Just another pathetic human trying to scrawl out their existence. But some of them are truly… transcendent." The boy nodded in a calm understanding.

With barely contained excitement Soji led him to the classics, the leather-backed and stout books with their pages upon pages of golden words, beautiful language, perfect ideals. Reverently he removed Toriya's _Craft of War_, placing it in the boy's waiting hands. "It's a little difficult to comprehend, but it truly is worthwhile."

"I read about this book," replied the child eagerly, beaming. "But Sensei couldn't find it."

"You can borrow it," said Soji. He paused, shocking himself with the suggestion. It was his favorite book; could he truly let it go so quickly? This was not the world of civilization. He would most likely never see it again.

And another revelation: he scowled and abruptly laughed. "Hell, you can keep it. What would I do with it? Take all the books you want, Gohan. Take all of them and more."

"I'll borrow it," replied Gohan determinedly. He then dropped into uncertainty. "Could I borrow it? Maybe, when I'm done reading, could we talk about it? Sensei… he gives me textbooks but he knows nothing of them. He doesn't approve of your texts. But I would like greatly to hear what you think of these books."

The old man, wrinkled face pricked with stubble and with stern lines drawn deep, found his mind (far too experienced, far too old) without words. This child could not be real. There could not be a kid standing here, asking to learn of a civilization effectively murdered in its prime. Asking with genuine curiosity to resurrect not just these dead books but Soji himself, Soji's life of learning and studying and analyzing, a final chance – _a final chance to teach. _

His voice quavered. "Of… of course. Of course you can." He smiled, tears stinging at the corner of his eyes. "Maybe I can show you how we humans talk, too."

That day they spoke for hours, over the rows of books and in the staff room which was Soji's kitchen. The child's stiff demeanor slowly melted, and his words grew less like those of a textbook and more like those of a real human. He asked questions; strange questions. The strangest was: "Did the humans destroy their cities?" Soji replied that in a way perhaps they did, that maybe God had turned his back on them for their own impudence. He did not see fit to explain the Demon King; if the boy's master hadn't described that travesty to him yet, he'd figure it out on his own.

He found himself describing his life, from his early years as a scholar and then a professor to his early retirement and coming here, to the library. His literary kingdom. His life story sounded so simple and damned _boring _spilling out of his lips, but the boy listened with avid interest. When the task of autobiography was passed to him, Gohan grew reluctant, divulging little if any facts about himself.

Eventually the sun grew close to the horizon and Gohan made his goodbyes with a gush of gratitude.

As they stood on the marble steps, awash in the dying sun, the child made a final odd comment. He looked Soji over, cocked his head to the side, and said, "I've never spoken with a human before."

Soji, completely taken aback, did not think to ask 'What about this master of yours?' until after the boy had tucked the book tightly under one arm, waved, and _flown._

This last act - that of a twelve-year-old actually levitating into the air to arc wide over the dead city and off into the horizon - cemented in Soji's mind the idea that the boy was only a hallucination. This boy could only be his dying mind's attempt to offer him some solace, his years of seclusion finally warping his sense of perception to the point of insanity.

That week he put a book back on the shelf. The next week, two more; and then he spent three days furiously reshelving, each book in perfect alphabetical order, catalogued neatly into the system. He made everything impeccable for his hallucinated young friend.

A month passed and Soji began to despair that Gohan would never return, that he had frightened his last hope for salvation off. He wanted to speak with the boy – he wanted to discuss so many things, religion and philosophy, all the philosophies, hell, he would discuss that frilly Aestrian romance novel that the women had always babbled about; just to _discuss. _To accept that life was not as over and done with as he had believed. But days passed without any sign of return and he began to spend his days in a sickly fog once more, observing the neat rows of book upon book with utter distaste.

And then the boy returned.

They spoke for hours of Toriya, of life and death and human perception. Soji spoke with vehemence and fervor, making the boy laugh with his exaggerations and frown thoughtfully at his revelations. With the youth's visit came a return of Soji's own youth, his heart quickening, his tired hands losing their usual tremor. The air itself seemed sweeter for days after their meeting, life sweeter as he awaited the next visit.

When the Hand came to deposit his monthly provisions, they did as they always did: laid their hand on his shoulder and said, "Don't lose hope, old man – don't think Kami has forgotten us." For the first time he did not laugh, but actually smiled genuinely back and replied, "No. He hasn't. Not at all."

There was a new routine in Soji's life. Monday, he read. Tuesday, he gardened. Wednesday, he studied, reading the endless tomes of literary critique and researching incessantly into whatever book had left in Gohan's hands during the last visit. Thursday was when he swept and made the generator squeal as he used the old and feeble vacuum cleaner within the close quarters of the library. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday he picked up his pad and paper and for the first time in seven years wrote.

And always, he waited. He waited for the next opportunity to revive mankind, through the mind and eyes of a boy. A strange, flying boy.

* * *

Tsumoya Karo had no intent to die that day, but it seemed he was about to if the gun being waved in his face was any indication.

His was a small town. There was only one bank, a tiny affair on Main Street. It held most everyone's money. Money was a commodity. The government was still struggling to keep control of everything, what with the mess of losing the majority of its population within the span of a few years. The life earnings of every resident in town was watched over by an old guard who was counting the days until his retirement. By Karo's guess, the man hadn't needed to touch his pistol in his life.

Karo had been heading to school at a leisurely pace (he was never desperate to learn), even though he was several minutes late already. Upon hearing the shouting down on Main Street he had come out of curiosity, only to find three masked men waving guns in front of the bank. Mr. Barue, the stodgy old security guard, was attempting to amiably amend the situation.

The robbers would have nothing of it. A machine gun was leveled upon Mr. Barue's chest, and the guard froze, hands up in a show of peace. A sleek black car, the only on the street, leaned ponderously against the curb. Cars were rare these days; fuel rarer. These robbers obviously had had some success in their ventures. And why not? There was barely any military to speak of, anymore. With no one to protect them, most of their victims probably threw up their hands in defeat without a moment's consideration, watching as their life savings (meager as they were) disappeared. They watched as these vultures removed what hope was left.

And what was he supposed to do? Watch? Mr. Barue held no soft spot in his heart for Karo, and the feeling was mutual, but the guard didn't deserve death because he had perhaps imbibed on a bit too much whiskey in his lifetime and disliked children.

Karo surprised even himself when he began striding quickly into the middle of the street – empty, as everyone else had probably hidden – and with a swift movement slid the backpack off his shoulders. It was hefty, containing at least three textbooks and a few notes. He tested its weight, bouncing the strap in his hand, and decided it was satisfactory.

Mr. Barue's eyes shifted in his direction, and he opened his mouth, probably to yell at him. But he was too late. Just as the closest robber turned to look, he planted his feet and let fly. The backpack slammed into the man's chest, knocking him to the concrete. Karo let go as it struck, letting the satchel hit the car and slump to the ground, harmless once more. The robber's gun went flying from his hand to clatter against the steps of the bank.

Now he had the others' attention. Mr. Barue immediately shouted, "What the hell are you doing, Karo!?"

"Shuddup, old man," ordered the tallest of the robbers. His eyes glinted behind the roughly-cut ski mask. "Look at this. A regular hero."

"What do you think you're doing?" shouted Karo angrily, taking a few steps forward. The men made no attempt to stop him. They obviously weren't threatened at all. Not by a wiry, twelve-year-old kid.

"So how old are you, eleven?" asked the tall one, smirking. The robber he had knocked down had managed to get up, and now rubbed his neck while cursing to himself. Seeing his attacker, however, he joined the others in their amusement, smirking.

"Twelve," Karo corrected sharply. His hands clenched into fists as he took another step towards the car.

"You bulletproof or braindead?" The one he had knocked down spoke this time, leveling a pistol at Karo's head. He barked a hyena-like laugh.

"Karo! Get away from there!" cried Mr. Barue.

The thieves suddenly recalled their position. The tallest leapt around, scowling, and Karo cringed as a spat of gunfire ripped across the air. The glass window which adorned the front of the bank shattered, an alarm sounding loudly as Mr. Barue collapsed in a mist of blood. The guard hit the ground without so much as a groan.

For a moment he was frozen, overwhelmed. A tremble worked at his shoulders as, indecisive, he stared at the fallen man. He had never seen someone die before. He'd never seen someone _wounded_ before. His mind seemed to collapse at the sight.

His body decided for him. Curiously void of any emotion except a blatant rage, his feet moved of their own accord. In seemingly slow motion they carried him across the asphalt; he leapt off the ground, crossed the hood of the car, and with all his weight shoved the tallest man to the ground.

On instinct the man's hand clenched – a burst from the machine gun caught his comrade full in the torso as he fell and slammed into the pavement.

Blood pouring from his chest, the man Karo had struck earlier with his backpack fell to his knees, making an odd wheezing noise. With a final grunt he collapsed facedown and moved no more.

Karo, stunned, pushed off the thief. His head turned to find a pistol leveled on his forehead.

"Bastard kid," the last man standing muttered. The child watched, too terrified to move, as the trigger was slowly compressed…

He closed his eyes and turned his head away as the gunshot rang across the empty street. But, to his surprise, a second later he was still breathing. With his heart attempting to beat its way out of his chest he opened his eyes and looked back to the pistol.

In his line of sight was a fist. A human fist.

The owner of the fist spoke, his voice surreal – calm and inquisitive. He had an odd accent. It was crisp, without inflection of any sort. It was odd because, quite bluntly, he _had_ no accent. It wasn't country or Northern. It was simply… speech.

"What is the point of killing these people?" the man was asking. He sounded genuinely curious. "And in such an unfair manner."

The robber, shaking, dropped his pistol with a loud clatter. His eyes were seemed ready to simply explode out of their sockets.

As he watched the fist it uncurled, slowly and smoothly. A flattened bullet clinked gently against the concrete. It was still smoking.

The living robbers, and Karo himself, watched the gleaming bit of metal, utterly dumbfounded. They then studied the hand and, slowly, the man attached.

He looked to be a young man, perhaps of college age, if colleges still existed. He possessed unkempt black hair and the roughly cut clothing, that of the mountains. An odd sheath of some sort was thrown across his back, its thin strap running crosswise from shoulder to hip.

The man wasn't scowling, or showing much of any expression – if anything, he seemed a little surprised at _their_ surprise.

The robber that was standing was first to bolt. "Screw this, man," he hissed to his companion, who was still pinned underneath Karo. "This town is freaking _crazy._" He leapt into the car, leaving his pistol glinting on the sidewalk. The engine roared into life.

"Woah, woah! Stan—" Panicking, the robber underneath Karo threw him off as he bolted to his feet, sprinting for the passenger door. He hadn't even closed the door when the driver gunned the engine and in the stench of burning rubber they disappeared down Main Street.

"They didn't answer my question," said the young man plaintively. Karo regarded him like an extraterrestrial, getting to his feet. He shied past the bleeding thief to grab his backpack, slinging it back over his shoulder with the hopes that the heavy weight of textbooks would bring back some semblance of normalcy.

The child studied his savior suspiciously. "What are you?"

He seemed offended by that. "Human, I'm sure."

"Then how'd you do that?"

"I have tough skin."

Karo snatched up the man's hand; he obligingly allowed him to examine it. "You aren't human," stated the twelve-year-old breathlessly. The palm was utterly untouched, save a small irritated spot, as if he had been tapped – not shot.

"It stung a little," said the man, as if it would remedy the entire situation. Karo studied the hand scrupulously before dropping it, finding nothing.

"If you're human can you teach me how?" he asked.

The man raised his eyebrows. "How what?"

"To do that!"

"It takes a lot of training, I think," said the man cautiously. "Or I may have just been born with it. Perhaps both."

"Can your dad stop bullets too?" asked Karo, excitedly.

"I don't know," he replied tersely.

The child glanced over the scene, heart still beating fast. His hands felt twitchy, as if his body was still itching for action. But they fell still as he saw the broken window. "Mr. Barue…"

"He's already dead."

Karo glared at the young man. "How would you know?" Hopeful, he bounded up the steps, picking his way among the glass. Several frightened bank employees had already clustered around the guard, but he was motionless, eyes open and eerily blank.

"His chi's gone," the man called.

Karo lingered, tears nipping at the corners of his eyes. He forced himself to turn away from the scene.

"His what?" the child asked morosely as he headed back to the street. The dead thief there caused him to shudder; he began to head back down Main Street, away from school and the carnage of the bank.

"Chi," replied the man calmly. "You don't know about chi? I noticed your books have nothing on it."

"'Your books'?" Karo made a face at him. "What are you, foreign?"

The man picked at the sheath strap running across his chest. "I suppose."

"What's that?" His eyes flickered to the red sheath.

"It's my nyoi-bo," said the man. Just as he spoke of 'chi', he said this as if he expected that to explain everything. Karo found himself growing slightly annoyed by the man.

"So what _is_ it?"

Reaching back a hand, he pulled out a short, smooth pole. It seemed to be made of a cherry wood of some sort. "It's for fighting."

"Seems kind of short."

The man muttered something to the pole and, glowing with an ethereal light, it suddenly became several feet longer. When he muttered again it ceased to grow, becoming solid and normal again, but now nearly two meters long.

Karo stared, dumbstruck. "What _are_ you?"

"Human. Didn't you already ask that?"

"Right," the boy scoffed. He pulled at his backpack straps, and for the first time wondered where he would go, standing at the corner of 1st and Main.

"So what's your name?" Karo asked, stalling, as he stood idly on the corner.

For a moment, he didn't seem to know. After a long bout of silence he finally replied, "Gohan."

"What, had to think about it?"

"I'm not used to telling hu—" he paused, frowning. "_People_ my name."

"Humans? You were gonna say humans! You _aren't _human!" cried Karo triumphantly.

"Don't I _look_ human?" replied Gohan irritably.

"Maybe," said Karo teasingly. "But who knows? Maybe you're a robot."

"I think I'd know if I was."

"Then why would you say humans?"

"Do all children ask this many questions, or is it just you?"

"Are all aliens so humanoid?" Karo poked him in the elbow, to see if he felt human. He did, though the child resolved that appearances weren't everything.

Regarding him in an irritated fashion, the young man coaxed the pole into shortening again and slipped it back into its sheath.

Chastised, Karo proceeded across the walkway. He turned around, walking backwards, so as to keep watching the odd man. "Sorry, but I like asking questions, and you're really weird."

Gohan frowned. "I just don't talk to people much."

"Are you a hermit or something?"

"You could say that."

"So are you super strong? Can you kill people with that pole thing?" Karo imitated a whirling motion, grinning.

"Why would I want to kill anyone?" asked Gohan, stern. "I leave that to humans."

"You said it again!" cried the child excitedly.

The man grimaced and rephrased, "I leave that to _society._"

"But if you're like a superhero, stopping bullets and stuff, you could fight crime!" Karo lit up suddenly, grinning. "You should fight the Demon King!"

"Demon King?" Gohan repeated, puzzled.

"You really are a hermit," the child scoffed. "The Demon King! Mom says we aren't allowed to say his name, 'cause he'll hear it with his pointy ears and come and blow us up." He made a wild gesticulation at this. "But he's a giant, like 20 feet tall – with fangs and red eyes and crazy bat ears that can hear _everything._ He destroyed all the cities and now everyone lives in these tiny towns. He destroys those, too, but the government said if we lived split up there was less of a chance of him attacking us. Mom says he's sleeping now, but he'll be back if we kids act bad."

"Sounds like a fairy tale to keep you in line." The man looked skeptical.

"It's not!" cried Karo vehemently. "I saw one of the towns myself! It was just this big crater, like Mt. Paozu!" As they came to an alleyway he gestured towards the mountain in the distance, its side pocked with a gaping crater. "But there were a few skeleton buildings and I think I saw a human skull, too! It was just a few miles north of here. Mom said we weren't supposed to go there but I went anyway, followed the train tracks."

"I've seen the city ruins before. I was told they got destroyed in a war of some sort."

"No, no. The Demon King blew them up! He uses magic."

"Chi, probably," said Gohan thoughtfully. "My master might know something of it."

Karo kicked at a can in the gutter before looking up, exuberant. "Oh, you have a master? Can he stop bullets too?"

"I expect so. He doesn't like people, though. In fact… he'd be furious if he knew I was here."

"You're old, what does it matter what your master thinks?"

"He'd be angry," replied Gohan worriedly. "I wouldn't want to displease him."

"Well what he doesn't know won't hurt him."

The man grunted in reply, studying the buildings along the street. The shops had faded into neatly kept houses.

"Do you think you could teach me how to fight like a superhero?" asked Karo, abruptly somber. "So that I can stop bad people from killing good people?"

Gohan remained silent. After a moment of thoughtful consideration, he replied, "I could teach you the basics of fighting, yes. But not if you're going to act recklessly."

"I won't," the child promised. "Please?"

"I can't come often. Perhaps once a month."

"I live down that street," explained Karo, gesturing towards the other end of 1st. "The very end. My house is the white one with the green shutters."

"I can't just walk up to your door…"

"Well my room's on the second floor. It's on the far right around the back of the house. Throw a rock at my window or something."

Gohan nodded, shrugging. His eyes drifted towards the sun. "I have to go. Sensei will be wanting to spar, soon."

"Spar?" asked Karo, curious and rather disappointed.

"Um… fight," he clarified. "A practice fight. What was your name?"

"Tsumoya Karo," the child replied with a grin. "Gohan, right? What's your family name?"

"I don't have one," he replied simply. "Goodbye, Karo."

With a wave, the man took off into the air.

_ Flew._

Karo gaped afterwards. _It's just like Uncle Yamcha!_

* * *

Finis

* * *


	5. Hitorashii

A/N: _Finally giving NOM it's turn in updates. What a surprise. Many thanks to my pawesome beta, Astrozazel! _

_Hitorashii is Japanese for "like a decent person"._

Disclaimer: _All these kids are on loan from Mr. Akira Toriyama._

* * *

Chapter Five  
Hitorashii

* * *

Mens sibi conscia vecti._  
A mind knowing what is right._  
--Vergil, Aeneid Book I 

"He is no demon."

Three times.

"By blood, no. But by association—"

Three times, it had happened before.

"Are we to damn by association, then? Are we all thieves for associating with _you?_"

Before, it had always happened when he was by himself – him agonizing over the father he had never known, the brothers and sisters he had never had. In the forest or in his room. Once, twice, three times.

Krillin's voice grew to a fervent pitch in the next room, as it did so often in the adults' arguments. Karo grimaced and slid off the bench to wander the echoing hallways.

He could always sense the blackout coming. A specific curdling of his stomach, the faintest tremble of his hands, a bitter taste redolent in his mouth, and a strong, abrupt sensitivity to light. He had been squinting ever since…

Either way, it meant only this: another was coming. A strong one, and he knew he could not avoid it. Who knew where he would wake at the end of this blackout? Jumping off a building, or god knows what else. He did not know where it would end.

But he did know was where it had begun.

Early spring and the thick scent of budding leaves; a looming rainstorm curling over the mountains. Karo was drenched in sweat, despite the chill of the night. After three months without an appearance by his lax mentor, he had approached the night's impromptu training session with added fervor. Gohan had been training him for four years, ever since Karo was ten, but he could recount the number of sessions on two hands. Gohan simply did not have the time to visit often, for reasons he refused to disclose. Despite their sparse time spent together, Karo felt he had learned much in four years - certainly more than he would've expected. Chi manipulation of varying levels, from sensing life forms to a shaky form of hovering. The thrill of just those small achievements had brought a sense of heady accomplishment that night.

They walked in comfortable silence, Karo inserting the usual random observation or comment, Gohan replying with the usual shrug or nod. They left the comforting skeleton shroud of the trees for the abrupt clean-cut lawn of his backyard; at once Gohan paused, reluctant as always to enter that strange world that was civilization.

For once Karo did not let him escape.

A glance with his weak, wavering chi-sense found the familiar presence of Uncle Yamcha, the amiable man Karo had admired since before he could remember. Tall, confident, charismatic. One reason Karo trained so hard with Gohan was his hope to one day dazzle Yamcha, who was an experienced martial artist himself, with his new skills.

Gohan and Yamcha: both incredible fighters, if opposite in character. Karo observed them with equal admiration. The thought in his mind was simple, childish: why shouldn't his two idols meet?

But of course, how could he have known?

How could he have known that…

That was beside the point.

Drowned in this notion he seized Gohan's wrist, offering the apprehensive man a reassuring smile. "Just this once! My uncle Yamcha, he'd love to meet you. I mean, he's not really my uncle, just kinda call him that, but he's a fighter like you—"

"Yeah, so you told me," said Gohan softly. With unspoken reluctance he submitted, entering the grasping shafts of light thrown across the empty backyard by the lit house.

More light: the back door swung open with a fresh flood of blinding fluorescence. Yamcha descended the steps in his usual cloak of cat-like grace.

Karo smiled, releasing his teacher's wrist to approach his friend. "Yamcha!"

Scars dark in the shadows of the night, the older man's eyes traveled slowly from Karo to Gohan. At first Karo didn't comprehend it – the caution. The caged expression. So used to Yamcha's jokes, Yamcha's jests, he could not read this sudden barely-contained fury. A voice lined in threat and geniality: "Who's this, Karo?"

"He's been teaching me. His name's Gohan." Karo tugged at Gohan's sleeve, drawing the reluctant man closer. "See? This is my uncle Yamcha."

"Gohan," was the harsh, half-whispered oath. At last Karo noted the thinly-veiled anger; he looked to his uncle in blank confusion.

Gohan was just as confused, pale and wide-eyed.

"You _dare _show your face here?"

"Sorry, d-do I…?"

"Don't you play goddamn ignorance with me!" Redolent with self-righteousness, Yamcha rose to the heavens in Karo's vision, chi rocketing as he stalked towards an ashen Gohan. "_You know who you are!_"

Karo swiftly interposed, and already that bitter taste was in his mouth, already the lights were blinding. "Yamcha, stop it--! What're you _talking _about?"

"You can never call yourself a Son, Gohan!"

A glance behind – Gohan looked helplessly from the fuming Yamcha to a bewildering Karo with an expression of utter devastation, all his fears, all his caution confirmed.

"Gohan, wait—"

But he could not wait. His teacher fled, but his image did not, the pleading, helpless look in his dark eyes.

Karo turned upon Yamcha with renowned fury, hands trembling, stomach roiling. "Why'd you do that!?"

"He _isn't _what you think," said Yamcha, in his most convincing tone.

And then the lights flashed, blinding – and the world went black.

He awoke not in his bed, not even in his backyard, but in a field, eyes upon the star-studded night sky. Slowly he focused upon the world around him. Before him rested a yawning crater, a mountain stripped of its life. Only a long stretch of pondering placed the image: _Mt. Paozu. This is Mt. Paozu. But how did I…?_

A shake of the head and the rest of the world became comprehensible. Krillin, a man he barely knew, just another face among his mother's friends, held his shoulder. "Karo, what're you doing up here?"

But he did not answer, eyes already elsewhere. Yamcha, Briefs Bulma, conversing quietly over a stretcher and a body…

Gohan. It was Gohan.

Pale and oh-so-still.

At once he was running forward. Yamcha leapt up to grab him, a strange look on his face, something Karo didn't bother to read—he focused on fighting the man's grip, throat stinging as he screamed, "You killed him! _You killed him!_"

"Karo, no, calm down!" Bulma cried, pacifying. "He's asleep. He's alright. He isn't dead, he's asleep."

A deathly silent chopper ride brought him to the empty halls of Capsule Corporations, the only place of life in a graveyard city. In stony silence Karo heard the facts:

His teacher served a murderer.

His teacher served a demon.

He heard the facts but could not accept them as truth. Could Gohan, the soft-spoken one, the man that had saved him, willingly help a murderer? Could Gohan submit to a demon? He sat torn between the harsh anger of Yamcha and that final helpless expression on Gohan's face. An accomplice to—to genocide, all the dead people, all the broken families… How?

_He can't be, _he wanted to cry. _He can't be what you say; he _saved _me. _But one look at the hard glint of his uncle's eyes told him the adults would not hear, even Krillin with his sympathetic words and gestures.

Gohan – the Demon King's disciple.

"_My master… he doesn't like people."_

Gohan – a murderer's accomplice.

"_What is the point of killing these people? And in such an unfair manner."_

When did… when did everything go so wrong? Because he could _see _it. He could _see _their accusations. Always busy, always cautious – was it because he was shy or _guilty?_

Now he stood with dawn tainting the sky and fervent debate drawing to a close. He understood little – only that Gohan was the son of a dead friend, the student of a living evil. The Demon King, that fairy tale monster.

The three adults stood with this choice: kill a friend's son, kill a demon's student.

_Who are they to choose? _

Yamcha would win. They'd kill him. Krillin's arguments already grew weak, faint, because the others simply couldn't hear him. But Karo could, and Krillin was right. Who _were_ they to choose?

There was no proof. No proof that Gohan even _knew… _But how could he not? How could he not know what his master had done?

He stood in the doorway of the room they had sequestered the sedated Gohan in, his teacher sleeping but still at unrest, a pensive look upon his face as if he fought off unwanted dreams.

In a few hours he would awake. Or he would never awaken again. And Karo wasn't entirely sure which he preferred.

Sleeping, but still restless.

_Tell me who you are, Gohan. Tell me what you are. _

His head throbbed; he closed his eyes against the harsh fluorescent light. It simply wasn't enough to _not think _anymore. Another blackout coming…

On the counter lay bottles, gauze. The sedative, the sedative specially designed – or so Bulma said – for the unusual resilience that was the Son clan, whoever the hell they were. Apparently Gohan was one of them.

Unbidden his feet brought him to the counter, his hands reached for the clear liquid of the bottles. He was young but he wasn't stupid. He knew what saline was. He knew what a placebo was. A quick rummage of the long-empty room – this section of the building had once taken part in medical research – came up with a bottle of the liquid.

His hands were trembling as he struggled with the cap of sedative and saline both. Downright quaking as he poured a little into each, most of the sedative going down the drain, but enough left to produce that powerful chloroform smell.

_You chose a side, eh, young Karo?_

The fourteen-year-old smiled faintly at the thought. A conversation with Gohan had once brought up the argument of what manhood was- what maturity was. Gohan had replied "It's for each of us to decide. If it were my judgment… I would say it's when someone is able to remove himself from those he depends upon, able to stand on his own. Physically, socially… ideologically."

His pulse boomed in his ears, like thunder. One glance at his still-sleeping teacher and he pocketed the expended saline bottle, replacing the altered sedative. In an hour Bulma or Yamcha or Krillin would return, soak the gauze – but the chemical would not hold its sway over Gohan's consciousness. Not anymore.

_You think you understand him but you don't. How can you accuse him of treachery when he doesn't even understand who he _is?

"_Gohan, right? What's your family name?"_

"_I don't have one."_

_Yamcha, you're good. You have good intentions but… You're wrong._

A final resolution: _I won't let you do this._

The saline container found its way into the waste basket of a room choked with dust - what had been a secretary's office, back when civilization existed. Closing the door tightly behind him, Karo wandered into the kitchen and slumped across the table with his head buried in the crook of an elbow. Somewhere along the way Krillin wandered in, feet shuffling in weariness, and deposited a blanket upon his shoulders – but Karo did not sleep. He waited, watching that darkness of oblivion creep along the edges of his mind.

* * *

He sat in the filtered gray of dawn with hands demurely crossed, discomforted by the abrupt silence. Bulma and Krillin had retreated for the godsend of coffee, Karo was asleep in the kitchen. He sat in the dimly-lit room with the soft breathing of the unconscious Son Gohan and his own brooding thoughts. 

Let him live.

What a stupid idea – completely foolish. How could that idiot have suggested it?

Let him live? pah – it would be the end of them all.

Gohan lay still, never moving, never speaking. Bulma's sedative did wonders, even on the "inhuman" (as Shenron had so tactfully referred to it) qualities of Goku's heritage. And the qualities were definitely there. Dark hair, darker eyes. For the brief time they had exchanged looks and harsh words in Tsumoya Karo's backyard he had read the steady stance, the confidence even in confusion of a true warrior. Piccolo was few things in Yamcha's eyes, but perhaps he could assent that the demon was one hell of a teacher. No doubt Goku's blood played a large part in it.

What was it in this kid, a man, really, that he hated so much?

Perhaps that ancient memory of a small frame pressed against his leg.

"_Don't hide behind me,_" he had said. "_What kind of protection am I?_"

He gave the kid away. He never admitted it to his comrades but they knew it; he read that they knew it. It burned in his heart, that shame. Gave the kid away for a chance, just a wish, only to soon find that Shenron couldn't bring the long-dead back to life. Gave the kid away for a compromise: you can't bring him back? Fine. We'll reincarnate him.

And here was Son Goku's reincarnation, too young to be effective, still a child and barely trained.

Here was the price, fully grown and far too dangerous; the king's little pawn, his right-hand man, stronger than any of them. He'd kill them all at one word from Piccolo Daimao.

He's stronger than any of us. What other choice do we have? Why would he ever fight for us, the ones that abandoned him, that abhor him and imprison him now? How could he ever deny that demon's grip?

_Can you blame him, really? Blame him for what you've done to him?_

Again he felt the cold cloth in his hand, him wavering in the sultry forests of Mount Paozu as he watched this kid who was already awash in distant memories. _A fire and a demon's fury – who knew what the kid had seen, what he remembered?_ It was too simple: a tight grip on the kid's collarbone and the sedative-soaked cloth held tight over a relenting face. Seconds and the kid was already out, leaving him standing in doubt. He could not believe it had been so simple. The dead weight of Gohan's unconscious form - it almost disturbed him, how easy, how simple…

Karo's eyes upon him, but different, not a kid's eyes but a warrior's eyes, an old friend's eyes – but filled with anger. "_He's a kid, Yamcha… He's still a kid._"

…It would be simpler yet, just a little too much sedative and the kid would be dead.

He had grasped a four-year-old's arm and cast him into the arms of a demon. He had seized an eighteen-year-old in the throes of a nightmare, seized him and imprisoned him in sleep… A mistake and a solution. Just one more thing to grab: a reason. A reason to kill Goku's son.

Yamcha watched Piccolo's student sleep and found himself speaking aloud despite himself.

"Kid… You'll go with the demon, won't you? You'll kill us."

And for what? So much hate, over what? Why'd it have to be this way?

"You'll be our end. Even if you are the son of… of Goku. We couldn't let you live, kid. Could never let you live."

Because you were always just one more reminder of what died with our hopes

"If I'm the one to do it, don't think ill of me, kid. I don't know if you're a bad person or not at heart… But I'm sure of this. Anyone who sides with that monster is just as much of a murderer as he is. I've killed people before…" Too many to count."I hope that your master will be the last one I slay. But I can't do that when you're around. You're going to kill us, when the time comes. No matter what Karo says."

"_Have you considered _him_ at all, Yamcha? Have you considered who he is? 'Cause I'm not sure you have…"_

"So now, while we're in control… We have to make this decision. You can't get in our way. I can't waver on this. After all the people that have died… The thousands that that monster has killed..."

And the one I sacrificed.

"Piccolo's destroyed thousands of us. You must be blind or a murderer, kid – siding with the likes of _him._"

And I choose the latter, because how could you be so blind? How could you be blind to that? All the blood, all the lives, all because of one dead man's hate…

"He said you were just an experiment, but I think you've become more than that." More than an exchange. "The idea that the bastard could love… That's impossible. But you're important, somehow. He's wasted a lot of time on you. It's time that we took advantage of that."

Taking advantage of the weakness I crafted with my own cowardice. Cowardice of old must be courage now: my hands must be steady.

Will I go to Hell if I'm the one to do it? I don't care. If Piccolo falls, I'm happy. That's what I can tell myself: if Piccolo falls. If this sword comes down, Piccolo might go down with it.

Don't be too harsh in judging, whatever god is waiting for me up there. 'Cause I'm certain there's no other way.

We can't let him live.

Never should have let him live.

* * *

Finis

* * *


End file.
